jump to navigation

Poems I ♥

William Carlos Williams

DANSE RUSSE

If I when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,–
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
“I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!”
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
again the yellow drawn shades,–

Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?

___________________________________________________________

Rainer Maria Rilke

Die Stille

Hörst du Geliebte, ich hebe die Hände –
hörst du: es rauscht…
Welche Gebärde der Einsamen fände
sich nicht von vielen Dingen belauscht?
Hörst du, Geliebte, ich schließe die Lider
und auch das ist Geräusch bis zu dir.
Hörst du, Geliebte, ich hebe sie wieder……
… aber warum bist du nicht hier.
Der Abdruck meiner kleinsten Bewegung
bleibt in der seidenen Stille sichtbar;
unvernichtbar drückt die geringste Erregung
in den gespannten Vorhang der Ferne sich ein.
Auf meinen Atemzügen heben und senken
die Sterne sich.
Zu meinen Lippen kommen die Düfte zur Tränke,
und ich erkenne die Handgelenke
entfernter Engel.
Nur die ich denke: Dich
seh ich nicht.

From Das Buch der Bilder

___________________________________________________________

Ezra Pound

IN A STATION OF THE METRO

The apparition of these faces in the crowd ;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

___________________________________________________________

Jackie Kay

Grandpa’s Soup

No one makes soup like my Grandpa’s
with its diced carrots the perfect size
and its diced potatoes the perfect size
and its wee soft bits –
what are their names?
and its big bit of hough,
which rhymes with loch, floating
like a rich island in the middle of the soup sea.

I say, Grandpa, Grandpa, your soup is the best
soup in the whole world.
And Gradpa says, Och,
which rhymes with hough and loch,
Och, Don’t be daft,
because he’s shy about his soup, my Grandpa.
He knows I will grow up and pine for it.
I will fall ill and desperately need it.
I will long for it my whole life after he is gone.
Every soup will become sad and wrong after he is gone.
He knows when I’m older I will avoid soup altogether.
Oh Grandpa, Grandpa, why is your soup so glourious? I say
tucking into my fourth bowl in a day.

Barley! That’s the name of the wee soft bits. Barley.

___________________________________________________________

Advertisements

Comments»

No comments yet — be the first.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: